Depending on whom you ask, the potential of a given person is defined—both broadly and precisely—by either the decree of an omniscient Creator, or else the mechanical progression of (seemingly) self-aware cosmic-soup.
In either case, such potential is, categorically, limiting. Moreover, any creation (or, if you prefer, cosmic-soup section) who (or that), by vanity however phrased, fails to acknowledge those natural limits: they (or it) can never, by vanity’s failure, break reality, but rather only ever break against it.
Two among the potent pretenses in the present era that reaffirm the solidity of reality are the misery-laden moral-leprosies of homosexualism and transgenderism, both of whose predictable—indeed inevitable—consequences routinely remind that, whether by God else the die gradually cast by mechanical soup:
we are not free to do whatever we choose, regardless those winks of the many harvesters-of-potential lurking nearby as they can to the sunlight of truth, tempting limp rebels into the spiritual shadows of a blinding addiction to the wrath of wisdom, the envy of empathy, the sloth of procrastination—or any other among the countless consolation mires into which those fallen fling themselves by their insistence to trade life for lies.